Rated M for adult themes and language.

Chapter 37

"No way. I am not staying in this underground prison any longer," said John, wearily. The process of pulling on the gym pants had been difficult, excruciating in fact, even with Sherlock's help.

The consulting detective handed the stubborn blond another handful of tissues to wipe his sweaty face. Sherlock found the situation distressing. He was unused to caring about someone else's pain or fear, but he couldn't stop caring about John. And so he was forced to practice this un-natural patience

It didn't help that the little soldier was making everything much more difficult than necessary with his stubborn, false bravado.

"Okay then," said John, a fake smile filling his face. "I'm ready to go now."

The World's New-minted Most Patient Consulting Detective suppressed a truly dramatic sigh and tried pasting a strained smile on his face. Despite his extraordinary acting ability, the smile didn't fit him very well

"Actually John, the doctor stated that you should remain in bed for two more days, possibly three and…"

"Yes, I heard him Sherlock. And it's ridiculous. In fact, it's just stupid. No one recommends prolonged bed-rest anymore. Your so-called doctor is old school. I don't know why Mycroft brought him in," complained John. "You know I am a doctor. I've treated battlefield wounds for years. So, I guess I know something about this."

"Doctor Ramos is quite competent and has the added benefit of extreme loyalty to the Holmes family," said the consulting detective, kneeling to pull some thick, warm socks on John's feet. "And Doctor Ramos said that you need IV fluids, antibiotics and bed rest…above all rest."

"Sherlock, at the risk of tediously repeating myself, I am a doctor. I know what I need and I do not need bed-rest. I just need a pair of crutches to keep the weight off m'leg. And I don't need IV's if I can drink fluids, which I drank that whole nasty cup of apple juice while I was in the bathroom trying to shower. Speaking of which, I was doing fine before you made me fall…"

"I was attempting to assist you, John. You were the one who insisted on the shower and then almost fainted."

"I did not almost faint; I lost my balance because of your hovering," snapped the angry blond. "And I could have pulled those socks on m'self, if you'd given me half a chance."

Sherlock's lips all but disappeared as he pressed his lips together. Only the residual fear from nearly loosing his beloved soldier kept him from losing his infamous temper. The clear signs of pain and lingering anxiety on John's face also helped keep him grounded.

"Before we go anywhere, we need to talk first," said the detective. Sherlock perched on the edge of that bed that John refused to touch. His long legs extended toward John like a giant insect's.

John immediately frowned, focusing on the detective's never-ending legs. He didn't like the sound of this 'We need to talk'. That horrible phrase almost always preceded bad news, like break-ups...or incarcerations for manslaughter after shooting the hench-people of evil criminal masterminds or, God forbid, getting sent to some psyche ward just because of a tiny bit of confusion while under the influence of drugs and injuries…

"We need to discuss what happened while you were in Moriarty's custody," said Sherlock; his hands found their place steepled in front of his mouth.

"I already told you everything. I know it was a bit jumbled. I was kinda confused at first but that wasn't my fault. I know I probably sounded crazy but..."

"John, that's not what we need to talk about. Of course you were confused; you were in shock," reassured the lanky brunet. "And, the drugs didn't help."

"Yeah, good. 'Cause I'm fine now. Not confused at all. I'm obviously as stable as the rock of Gibraltar. And as far as shooting those hench…"

"John Watson, will you stop interrupting," demanded Sherlock. "I need to be sure about…Actually, while you were unconscious, the doctor examined you thoroughly. There didn't seem to be any physical signs of...abuse."

John looked blank. Then he blushed. Abuse? Sherlock meant sexual abuse. He meant rape. John achieved a marvelous shade of magenta, before he raised his furious blazing eyes.

"That was an invasion of privacy. That was uncalled for!"

"That was standard medical practice given that your captor had repeatedly threatened to…rape you," said Sherlock.

John breathed heavily, clenching his fists and trying to come up with a good retort.

"What I need to ask you, is whether Moriarty did abuse you in any way?" said Sherlock.

John sat silent.

"I…John, did that monster sexually abuse you?" demanded Sherlock.

"No!" snapped John, crossing his arms. "No, I told you that he was going to…do that…later. He kissed me and stuff, that's all." John stared at the floor. He was too ashamed to even look at Sherlock now. Sherlock was probably repulsed by John; after all, John was repulsed by John.

"John," the soft baritone voice had gotten closer.

The doctor could see two long, thin stockinged feet right in front of him.

"John, please look at me." The blond reluctantly looked up. "He kissed you and stuff. What stuff? We can't help you…I can't help you, unless I know what stuff."

John looked down again, resting his head on his hand and covering the lower half of his face. Then he began to mutter into his hand "He kissed and licked me and bit me like a bloody, damned vampire, and that's it. At least as far as that kind of stuff goes. Went. Whatever."

Sherlock sighed and knelt again in front of his boyfriend. "I wish you would look at me. I…I'm sorry I had to ask you that, but we thought... I thought it would be easier coming from me and not from Dr. Ramos or Myc..."

"Yeah," said John to his hand. "I guess. Maybe you're right; you're always bloody right." The blond added bitterly.

Sherlock's long fingers gently caressed the doctor's jaw. "I can't take away what happened, John, but I have taken the steps to ensure that he won't hurt you ever again."

John remained silent.

"Also, you should know that I have conducted research," said the genius. "And in case you have any notions that I might blame you or find you in any way less desirable…What I'm trying to say is don't entertain those notions. They would be wrong and ridiculous. No, I'm not supposed to say that…What I'm trying…"

"Um…I think I understand. Yeah," muttered John, still blushing faintly. "Okay then. It's fine…we're fine?"

John turned, a bit surprised at how close Sherlock was. Sherlock's lips twitched into half-smile. He kissed John once, gently and chastely on his lips. John couldn't help but return the smile for a few seconds.

"Look, Sherlock, I just want to go home."

"We can't go home just yet. It isn't safe," said Sherlock. "There are things we'll need to discuss and..."

"Well, if we can't go home yet, can we at least get out of this prison cell?" asked the blond.

"Yes, John," said the detective springing up like a long-legged grasshopper. He walked over to the wheelchair, which he had parked in the doorway.

"Hold on, I'm not using a damned wheel chair." John displayed today's default glower towards the offensive chair.

"You are not leaving this room without it," announced the detective firmly.

"I'd like to see you stop me," snapped the former soldier.

The blond scrambled out of the armchair, only to have Sherlock grab him under his arms, lift him up and deposit him on the despised hospital bed.

Cobalt blue eyes blazed into the depths of implacable glacial blue.

John quickly devised a couple of plans to foil his six-foot nemesis. Unfortunately, due to recent injuries, none of the plans seemed likely to succeed.

The two men returned scowls for just over eight minutes; Sherlock timed it. Then with a disgusted sigh John scrambled off the bed again, grabbing Sherlock's forearm for balance.

"Fine, I'll use the bloody chair-for now. IF, you get me some crutches by tomorrow morning," negotiated John. "And I'll wheel the chair myself."

Sherlock wheeled his flat mate into the break room of Mycroft's extensive underground lair. Both men's lips were tightly sealed; in fact, John's were now all but invisible. The doctor surreptitiously massaged the hand,which he had smashed into the wall during his ill-fated attempt at steering the bloody, dangerous contraption. It was all Sherlock's fault, thought the doctor grumpily.

"Come park yourselves over here," called Greg with an open, friendly grin. He sat at the largest of the four tables. He had skillfully positioned himself so that he was able to simultaneously watch the door and the televised football game, which played in the corner. Three off duty guards sat on the leather couch and enjoyed their pizza and soft drinks, oblivious to the gathering thunderclouds.

"Hiya! Sherlock, John. Feeling better are we?" said Greg loudly, as if John had lost his hearing or his mind, thought John sourly.

"Oh yeah, I'm great, thanks. Never better," said John, with a lightning fast smile that did not reach his dark eyes. "Well, I'm starving. What's there to eat?" He added, starting to stand.

"Sit!" said Greg and Sherlock, earning themselves a hooded-eyed Watson scowl.

"Right," said Greg Lestrade, just a trifle nervously. The tension between these two men was thicker than his mother's mashed potatoes. The DI stood to go to the large well stocked refrigerator. "Well there's all these sandwiches in the fridge, lots of different kinds. O'course there's yogurt, juice, soft drinks and fruit and…"

"Give him an orange and a ham and cheese sandwich. He'll want some Dijon mustard and a bag of crisps from the cupboard… and one of those diet cola things. He thinks he's too fat, so it has to be diet. I tell him he's very fit, very sexy. Personally, I wouldn't mind if he gained a couple of pounds; it would just make him softer and easier to grab on to when we…"

"Jesus Christ!" shouted the crimson-faced blond. "Just leave it will you!" He glowered at the tall man seated next to him. After pulling at his lip, John got out of the stupid and totally unnecessary wheelchair and hobbled painfully but with dignity over to a regular chair. Then he scowled at the plastic-wrapped sandwiches and the fruit that Greg placed in front of him. He pushed the sandwich over towards his boyfriend, along with the fattening crisps.

John toyed with the diet cola. Of course, Sherlock had selected precisely the lunch that John would have wanted, thought John, but now he wasn't hungry at all. He was irritated. It was irritating that Sherlock already knew him so well that he could read John's mind. Everything was irritating. His leg was irritating. People thinking he was crazy was irritating. It was irritating to be stuck with cold sandwiches, a stupid orange and two irritating detectives, instead of watching the telly with some total strangers and eating hot pizza. Even if Manchester United was winning.

Actually, that was irritating too.

"John, I said, put your leg up on this chair. You need to keep it elevated," said Sherlock who was being helpful while not hovering, at least in theory. "And if you'd take your pain meds, you'd feel better, less irritable.

"I'm not the one who's irritable," the blond hissed irritably. "And I guess I know to elevate m'leg. I'm a doctor, as I keep reminding you." Sherlock carefully raised John's leg onto another chair, in spite of John's complaints.

John watched the game for a few minutes, while Sherlock and Lestrade nattered on about the black SUV, which had been found abandoned in some woods only twenty-some kilometers from the country house from hell. Of course neither one included John in the conversation, even though he put the damn holes in the damn windows and even though he, John H. Watson Captain, RAMC, RET, was the man responsible for putting the damn holes in the damn bad guys leading to the damn blood which was spilled all over the bloody, damn upholstery.

"Damn," muttered John, under his breath. Damn, damn, damn."

Well, it was obvious why they ignored him, figured John. To begin with, John had let their side down, hadn't he? He had neither killed Moriarty, nor had he disabled the SUV. The best he could hope for now was that he had put Moran temporarily out of commission. Some marksman I turned out to be, thought John disconsolately.

And then there was that humiliating period of confusion, which John could not remember very well. He'd been so certain that Bill was there and it had really seemed like he was back in Helmand Province. It was remotely possible, considered the doctor, that it was maybe PTSD or…or something…John worried at his lip and missed it when Manchester United scored again.

Which was irritating. "Damn," muttered the blond soldier.

"John, eat your sandwich," ordered Sherlock.

"I'll eat when you eat," replied John, keeping his eyes glued on the telly. Football was suddenly a matter of overwhelming importance to the ex-soldier.

The detective inspector glanced between the two men and sighed.

"I could use a beer," complained Lestrade.

"Can I have one too?" asked John, hopefully.

"No!" said both of the rude, bossy detectives.

It surprised no one, when John reverted to his default scowl.

'Well, I see that Doctor Watson is up and about," said Mycroft an hour later. He breezed into the room wearing his light-grey bespoke suit and a new, silk tie embossed with a crown.

Greg jumped up and rushed to push Mycroft back out of the room.

"Don't talk to him. Just leave him alone. In fact don't talk to either of them," hissed Lestrade. "They've been going at it like cats and dogs for over an hour. At least they both ate half a sandwich and split half a bag of crisps. John is drinking tea now because he refused to drink the diet cola because he said that Sherlock said he was too fat or too skinny or both."

Mycroft blinked. "Greg, have you lost your mind?" said the tall politician, pushing his way past his partner. "I thought we were tracking down Moriarty, not playing nursemaid to my overgrown baby brother."

"No, Myc," whispered Greg Lestrade. "Sherlock's not the problem. It's John…"

"The problem has excellent hearing, y'know?" said John pointedly. "Haven't lost that yet."

"John, I didn't mean it that way," apologized Greg.

John glowered first at the DI, then at his cold tea and finally at his throbbing leg.

As he sat, Mycroft waved the guards away. They immediately dispersed, closing the door behind them. They seemed relieved to escape the oncoming storm.

"Splendid. This is just…lovely," Mycroft's lip curled in distaste at the linoleum tabletop, Styrofoam cups and paper plates with commonplace sandwiches fit for...workmen.

Since it so obviously offended the British Government, the break-room suddenly seemed more homelike to John. Really, the food seemed almost appetizing now. The blond smiled and decided to peel his orange. His blue eyes shifted toward the sneering politician.

Target acquired.

"Now," said the British Government, "I'm afraid that we haven't been able to track down either Moriarty or Moran. As Greg and Sherlock are aware…"

John's orange squirted the well-dressed politician mid-chest. The tall, urban ginger stared at the bit of juice dribbling down his new blue and red silk tie. There was a spot of juice on the crown itself.

Objective achieved.

A poorly concealed smirk stole onto John's face, before he ruthlessly forced it into a faux-concerned frown.

"Oh yeah, sorry 'bout that Mycroft," said John, who had retained some of his sharpshooter skills, despite his perceived failures while in the hands of Moriarty the Malevolent.

"Quite all right, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft, with false affability and a piercing, glacial glare. "Now as Greg and…"

"You want a piece of orange?" interrupted the shorter soldier. He held up a segment to the thin-lipped politician. "Anyone?" He offered some to the others with an airy wave, a la Sherlock.

"No," said Mycroft biting off his words. "Thank you."

John's flat mate had watched the exchange out of the corner of his eye. As always, John was full of surprises. Who knew that he'd be so good at Mycroft-baiting?

"You should have some," said John, putting a glistening section into his mouth and sucking on it. It was almost obscene, thought the consulting detective. "It's…succulent." John looked directly up into Mycroft's too bright eyes. "It's delectable even."

It was definitely obscene, thought Sherlock, chortling mentally even if his face remained deadpan.

Mycroft glared down his prominent proboscis.

John broke a couple of sections in half, spaying juice all over the table and hitting the stunned government official yet again. Mycroft flinched.

Objective achieved.

John enjoyed the delicious fruit; in fact it was the most delicious fruit he'd tasted in ages.

"I'm trying to conduct a briefing, Doctor," snapped the British Government.

"Yeah? Go ahead, don't mind me," said John standing.

"John, sit down!" fussed Sherlock.

"I'm just getting some fresh tea," said John, with a fake smile to cover the excruciating pain in his leg.

"Sit down, Doctor!" snapped the British Government.

John straightened his back and stood at parade rest, despite the discomfort. "No thank you, sir," said the former captain, willing himself not to break into a sweat again.

"Were you this much trouble when you were in the army?" asked Mycroft testily.

"In the words of Sister Maria," said John glibly, "Oh, much more!" He flashed a grin, pleased with his newest cinematic allusion. It almost masked the pain in his leg. Sort of.

Then he looked at the blank faces surrounding him. "It's from The Sound of Music. Surely to God, you lot have seen The Sound of Music?"

Mycroft and his partner exchanged dumbfounded looks, "I'm sure I've seen it, maybe?" murmured Lestrade.

Sherlock's impassive face broke into a grin, even though he had no idea what John was referencing now. John mirrored the smile back to his handsome boyfriend.

"Enough of this tomfoolery!" snapped Mycroft.

"Tom who? What? Does anyone say that anymore?" asked John.

"No, John, I don't believe so," said Sherlock, trying not to laugh.

"I mean seriously, when was the last time you ever heard someone say tomfoolery?" persisted John.

Lestrade, who had risen, ostensibly to make more tea, bent over the counter choking back his laughter.

"We are in the midst of a man hunt," snarled Mycroft, "for the most dangerous man in the United Kingdom and frankly all of Europe…"

John stiffened as if he'd been struck. Sherlock glared at his older brother for wiping the happy smile off of John's face. The younger Holmes rose menacingly.

"Yeah, about that," said John now fully sober and standing rigidly at attention, his eyes facing forward. "I'm sorry about that. Sir!"

Mycroft was taken aback. "Sorry?"

"You have nothing to be sorry for John!" interjected Sherlock, abandoning his attack on Mycroft to hover next to John, tugging his arm. "Sit down!" he hissed to the stiff-backed soldier.

"I was armed and yet failed to take out the enemy," said John. "There's no use sugar-coating it. I didn't get either Moriarty or Moran. I didn't even disable the van. Any raw recruit would have known to shoot out the radiator or the tires."

"Oh for God's sake!" said Sherlock, tugging now at his own hair, his voice rising in pitch with his frustration. "You were a prisoner," he all but whined. "and injured and that was before you were shot and started trying to bleed to death! No one expected you to take out anybody." The detective tilted his head and dispatched a warning glare at anyone who would dare to challenge Sherlock's statement.

"Sherlock's right, John," said Greg. "No one is blaming you."

"I am aware of my failings, detective inspector," said John formally.

"What is going on in that jumbled little brain of yours? If anyone must take blame," said Sherlock, "then it should be me. I did not protect you…"

"No. I'm a soldier…"

Mycroft sighed. "I'm going to assume that these mood swings are the result of injury and medication. Although in Sherlock's case, mood swings are, unfortunately, quite normal. Regardless, I intend to ignore them," announced the British Government. "I assure you, Doctor Watson. No one holds you accountable for Moriarty's continued freedom. Further self-recriminations from either one of you would be an absurd waste of time. Now," continued Mycroft, over Sherlock's incipient interruption, "the point of this meeting is to fill John in on the search, such as it stands…"

"I believe I've been informed of all the details, Sir," said Captain Watson.

"Good," said Mycroft, rolling his eyes. "Now, how do we get you to sit down? Do I have to say, 'at ease' or something?"

John slowly returned to at-rest position, "Humor, Sir?"

Mycroft offered a tiny, pained smile, which John returned just as painfully.

"Stop calling Mycroft Sir," complained the World's Only Consulting Detective. "And do get the weight off of your leg. Look, here's fresh, hot tea: milk, no sugar. And biscuits. Some nice Jammy Dodgers. You promised that you'd eat and drink," said Sherlock hovering and fussing over his blond ex-soldier.

"Doctor Watson, please sit before my brother exhausts himself," Mycroft uttered with thinly veiled disgust.

John glared darkly from under his blond lashes. Then he let Sherlock ease him back into his chair, settling with his leg raised once again.

The detective inspector handed mugs of tea to everyone else.

"Gregory, I don't see why we can't just keep a regular tea service in this room, with real tea cups," complained Mycroft. "Or else we could start using the formal dining room."

"Myc, we've been through this. This room is more casual and more comfortable for discussions," said Greg placatingly.

"Oh dear God," muttered Sherlock, slurping his tea loudly. Mycroft winced.

John smiled into his tea.

"Ignore him, Myc," advised Greg. "Otherwise, you only encourage him."

"Fine, if we are all settled then?" said Mycroft, looking longingly at John's biscuits. Then he shook his head. "And can I assume you are done interrupting, Doctor?" John stopped chewing and tried to stand again.

Sherlock held him down, by placing a large hand on John's shoulder. He also delivered his patented death glare to his older sibling. Sadly, the glare did not wither Mycroft in his seat; in fact, Mycroft kept talking. "While we have not given up hope of apprehending Moriarty, Sherlock and I have given thought to our next move."

"Oh yeah?" said John, once more suspicious. "Sir," he added.

"Stop calling him Sir," whispered the thin brunette, snagging one of John's Jammy Dodgers.

"We will continue the search, concentrating on Moran whose medical needs may expose his location."

"I wouldn't count on it," said John. "He think he'll be able to avoid hospitals, as long as he has access to a doctor. I saw Sebastian's medical records when Sherlock made me…um, when I was in my prison cell. Yeah. Anyway, Moran suffered no bowel perforation; in fact, there was no significant damage to any internal organs. I suppose we can still hope for a wound infection," he mused, even though it was an unethical hope. "But it's unlikely. His arm wound is of no consequence, unless it becomes infected, which is even more unlikely. Of course, someone will have started him on antibiotics to prevent infection…maybe he'll contract MRSA or C. difficile. He deserves it. "

"His injuries will keep him out of action, right? And he won't be able to shoot," said Lestrade. "Will he?"

"Well, he certainly won't be able to use a rifle anytime soon. But he could probably fire a handgun…a couple times maybe. It would hurt though," said John with a smidge of satisfaction. "And it'll hurt him to fire a gun, a lot more than it'll hurt me to fire one. Hell, I could fire a rifle today if I had to. So there'll be no problem with me guarding Sherlock."

"John, that won't be necessary," said Sherlock.

'Yeah, it will," said John. "I told you back in my cell, that Jim was coming after you too now. One of the reasons he wanted to re-program me was so that he could use me to hurt you."

"And I was going to be informed of this when?" asked Mycroft, with narrowed eyes.

"When it concerned you," said Sherlock loftily.

"Well, brother mine, it concerns me now," said Mycroft, tapping a finger against his chin. "However…that does not change our initial plan. We believe that Moriarty will make some retaliatory move…"

"Well, when he comes after me, I'll be ready for him," said John.

"I rather doubt that he'll make any moves towards a dead man, John,' said Mycroft.

"Don't call him John," said Sherlock, "And I believe that it is past time for his medication. Let's go, John." The consulting detective rose and placed his hand on John's arm.

"No. Wait. What do you mean, dead man?" demanded John with narrowed eyes.

"I see that John did not receive the full briefing," commented Mycroft.

John shook Sherlock's hand off and crossed his arms, waiting.

"It's the best plan to keep you safely out of Moriarty's clutches," said Sherlock.

Captain John Watson turned his head slowly. "Tell me," he commanded softly, looking at each of the Holmes brothers and then at Lestrade.

"Actually, you can call it plan L," suggested Lestrade helpfully. "Want some more tea?"

"L for Lestrade?" asked John, who did not want any more tea. His eyes darkened under his lowering brows.

"I don't have time for prevarication," said Mycroft disdainfully. He ignored both Sherlock's baleful glare and Greg's warning head shake. "Lestrade called it plan L for Lazarus. Project Lazarus. We have arranged it, so that you officially died en route to hospital. It wasn't so far from the truth, apparently. As I understand it you were quite unstable for the first few hours due to blood loss. Now that you are officially dead, you will no longer be a target, and Sherlock can concentrate on the search for this psychopath."

"What? I go under cover, in disguise?" asked John confused.

"No you remain here, safely recovering from your injuries," said Sherlock reasonably.

"It makes sense," suggested Greg Lestrade, nodding now.

"No. No it doesn't," said John his voice rising in pitch. "Who's going to protect Sherlock from that madman? And if I'm out-of-the-way, it'll only allow Jim to concentrate on stalking Sherlock."

"His threats may well have been empty, John," said Sherlock. "Merely a ruse, to alarm you and make it easier to brainwash you."

"He sounded bloody serious to me," said John. "And I don't think he issues empty threats."

"It's a moot point," said Mycroft. "The world thinks you are dead. The obituary will be published tomorrow."

"Harry and, and my friends," began John again. "They'll all think I'm dead?"

"A necessary evil," said the British Government. "Still, it's possible that Harry will not even hear of this, before Moriarty is captured and the ruse will no longer be required."

"So everyone I care about will think I'm dead. Meantime, I'm supposed to just sit around here, while Sherlock runs around unprotected, with a murderous psychopath on his tail? "

"Sherlock will be protected the finest people at my disposal. You will be recovering and undergoing physical therapy, John Watson," said the implacable British Government. "You will be suitably busy, until such time…"

"What if I say no?" asked the small, tense soldier.

"You have no choice, Doctor Watson. You will remain here under safe-keeping until such time…"

"Under lock and key you mean!" shouted John standing, his hand fisting against his side. "You mean I'm to be a prisoner again. Next thing I know you'll be drinking lemonade and making me sit in a comfy chair. Well, I won't stand for it."

"John, sit down," said Sherlock.

"No, I won't sit down!" snapped the former captain. "This is my fight and I will NOT be side-lined."

"Look at it logically. With you hidden safely from Moriarty, I will not be distracted and can track him down and…"

"And get killed! You'll get killed. You're not a soldier and…"

"Being a soldier was not much of an asset for you, Doctor Watson," interrupted Mycroft.

John lost what little color he had.

"Sod this!" snarled John, limping towards the door.

"John you cannot walk on that leg, you need the wheel chair,"

"And sod the wheel chair," snapped John, using the doorframe to support himself.

Greg and Sherlock stood simultaneously. The brunet threw a repressive glare at the detective inspector, who sat back down. The consulting detective hurried to John's side.

He wrapped an long arm around the ex-army doctor and began helping him back to his room.

John accepted Sherlock's help without a murmur, because he'd barely made it out the door, before his injured leg announced its intention to quit working altogether.

Sherlock supported most of John's weight, as they slowly paced the halls to the room, aka prison cell, where John fully intended to continue this discussion.

A/N Seriously, if you see errors, typos or notice something that could improve my writing, please let me know! :D

Thanks: Thank you to everyone who continues to read, follow or favorite my story. :D

Extra thanks to those who share their thoughts, con-crits, witticisms and feels in their reviews. Thank you to the most recent reviewers: dana-san, SamuelE8688, Erenem, 107602, Sparklibird, julyheat, EJ122121012, Shadows Concealed In Darkness, Quiet Time, anyrei1, G0dC0mplex. :D

Disclaimer I do not own rights to Sherlock. I do not earn money from it but I do earn lots of happiness when I read comments from people like you. :D

BFBIC-continued

When we left off, Sherlock had discovered the jam on John's chest and icy tendrils of jealously had crystallized in Sherlock's suddenly chilling veins. Then Sherlock had suspiciously asked "How did that jam get on your chest, John?"…

"Sherlock!" said John. "Didn't you see the empty jam jar on the table?"

"Of course; I observed it. I observe everything," said the consulting detective coldly.

"Well, when Moriarty threatened to kill me, I was so startled that the jar slipped out of my fingers and the jam spilled down my shirt."

"I fail to see how that could happen," said Sherlock severely.

John twisted nervously in the WOCD's arms. A sure sign of guilt, thought Sherlock, his gut twisting in strange yet ironic sympathy.

"John!" demanded Sherlock. "Did Moriarty put that jam on your chest?"

John gasped in shock, shame, anger, humiliation and just plain surprise. His forehead furrowed and unfurrowed as it mirrored these myriad emotions.

"How could you think that, Sherlock? How…how could you…"

The blond doctor twisted out of his not-gay boyfriend's grasp and turned to storm out the door…it was his special way of dealing with shock, shame, anger, humiliation and even just plain surprise. It was his default reaction to most strong emotions really.

Sherlock was too fast though. He grabbed John by his unattractive but inexpensive checked shirt, which was mass produced in India and available at discount stores throughout The United Kingdom. Sherlock hoped that the shirt would rip and thus be tossed out of his bloggers wardrobe.

"John I want the truth!"

"FINE!" yelled the shorter man. "I couldn't help myself. I was so upset by Mycroft that I…I…I…Oh God, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I know that I promised not to do it any more but…but I was licking the jam straight out of the jar and then when Moriarty attacked, the jam spilled out and it went down my shirt and…and…itdrippedintomypants. I'm sorry, but I wasted the entire jar, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed with relief. That story was believable. John had a serious jam addiction when under stress, and obviously Mycroft could drive anyone to lick jam straight out of the jar.

Sherlock smiled. His loyal blogger had not betrayed him with James Moriarty. He drew John in for a sweet, jammy kiss…

Then Sherlock's massive intellect finally interpreted the phrase: itdrippedtintomypants. In other words, John Watson was apparently smeared with mixed-berry jam from his fit, mysteriously tanned chest down to his sweet, succulent sac.

"Oh, it's Christmas!" crowed the WOCD, jumping into the air and clapping his hands together. "John, the game is on! There isn't a moment to lose! This is something NEW! This'll be a case for your blog! Once more into the breech, dear friends!"

"Sherlock! Snap out of it. Stop babbling and pay attention to me!" demanded the sticky, little ex-soldier.

"Yes, obviously I intend to pay attention to you, John," said the pale, eager detective whose eyes glittered with an addictive hunger for jam and John. "I suggest you cancel work for tomorrow, John Watson. When I'm finished with you, you won't be capable of walking, let alone treating annoying and possibly contagious patients."

John trembled like a virgin (once more forgetting his moniker of Three Continents Watson).

"But tomorrow is Sunday, Sherlock. The clinic is closed."

"Excellent, John. Even better, you won't have to walk any further than the kitchen to make our tea and toast," said the mad genius, his silver eyes glinting like burning ice. "Now where did I put those handcuffs…"

TBC :D